I love my husband.
When we first got together, he cooked a lot of meals for me.
From scrumptious scrambled eggs, flavourful chicken souvlaki to light and airy pineapple cheesecake, he knows his way around the kitchen.
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We would take turns cooking for each other. We made dinners that required hours to prepare and took more hours to enjoy them and each others' company. That was when we had the time.
But then the kids came.
It got busy, and it became who was the faster and more experienced cook.
I’ve been cooking since I was 10 years old, slicing, dicing, mixing and sauteing. I can make dinner in under 30 minutes without making a huge mess or having to follow a recipe.
It just made sense for me to be the designated chef in the house.
So we decided that I would cook, and he would do dishes.
On a busy Friday afternoon, I realised I hadn’t prepared anything for dinner. My husband was watching the kids that day so I yelled from the office, "What do you wanna do for dinner? I didn’t plan anything."
He yells back, "Don’t worry, babe. I’ll make dinner for us."
I shrug and get back to work.
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As I’m shutting down my laptop, I’m excited to see what’s for dinner. I run upstairs to look at the dining table. He’s in the kitchen putting some things away.
There are two perfectly grilled tuna sandwiches cut diagonally, placed on top of each other like a photo straight out of the Bon Appetit magazine. They look amazing.